Bleak
by Skyker
Summary: OOT Seven years after he overthrows the king of Hyrule, Ganondorf faces the world he has created for himself. Somewhat AU
1. Prologue

I gazed far out across the once green lands, their rolling hills bleak beneath a clouded sky. Rain fell, and seeing the ruin about me, I could not feel satisfied. In the end, this wasn't entirely what I had wanted for the people and the land. My blood had burned and I had turned to rage when I should have been fully sober and making decisions thoughtfully. I should have been more diplomatic, more subtle. But I had been, had I not? The King had thought me a loyal ally, when in truth; I was getting close to him only to usurp his shining throne. I was cunning and dark when I needed to be, a treacherous serpent, a Venus fly trap. However, I was known for my fits of rage and blazing, flourishing temper. Even my own people feared me for that. I often blamed my heritage, my ethnicity, for my mood changes and sudden blood-lusts. I was the only male born for over a hundred or so years, born to be a king. My people were solely comprised of women, and maybe it was sexist or unjust of me to accuse them of breeding a tyrant, but it was easier than accepting that perhaps I had some internal issues.

But now was not a time for regrets or mindless ponderings upon the nature of me. The world was at my feet, bowing and cowering. Oh, sure, there was a small resistance group simmering to the west, and the forests would never truly be mine, but I had everything under control. And perhaps I could convince the forest to bend to my will if I had an insider. I send moblins in search of those elusive skullchildren, said to have once been children of the forest who had gotten lost in the Woods. They appealed to me, lost souls-turned monstrous. I could feel their unguided potential stirring, and nearly purred at the thought of what they could be capable of with my cunning mind guiding them. In my mind, their mischievous ways held a hidden malice; and the evil in them, planted as a seed when they changed from child to monster, was the essence of the ancient forest born into their very souls. They could wreak my havoc where I dare not go. My eyes lingered on the brooding forest across the plain, and the shadow of a smirk fell lax across my lips. I turned my gaze to the once bustling, glorious Castletown.

This I regret, the derelict buildings, the gloom-saturated atmosphere. What was left of the civilians stayed hidden and tucked away in their homes. Re-dead sentinels stood as if asleep on their feet, their emaciated forms full of hunger that would not be satisfied and thirst that would not be quenched. Once great men, their souls were stolen by greed, and now they stood eternally damned. Another thing I could not fully control, though I knew how to get them to do what I wanted, at the very least. In the distance a spine-chilling moan echoed, perhaps someone had strayed too far from their home. I briefly wonder if the undead would have a meal this evening. No, I would have not had it this way, for what is a king without his people, and a land to rule over. Oh, I do not mind the fear, with it comes a certain measure of respect, and I could not imagine myself to be a beloved king, not after I killed His Majesty, who was so adored by his people. But at least I would have preferred a people thriving under my guiding hand than this empty ghost town.

As my attentions lingered on the town's drawbridge, my eyebrows drew down into a mild frown. Brilliant blue eyes filled with a blazing purity haunted me in the form of a green-clad phantom; a distant memory, but one so prominent, so integral to my thoughts. Who was the child? That night I had chased the Princess and her guardian from the castle he stood at the drawbridge. His eyes so piercing, so crystalline, and despite the purity that struck my sixth sense, there was such determination in the child's gaze. Our eyes had held for a moment, he did not glance away. He seemed so familiar. I had dreamt of him, those dreams had brought me great restlessness and even when they failed to come after our fated meeting, they held sway in my mind. There was something important about the child who dressed as a Kokiri, but was even then too physically mature to be a child of the forest. I could still feel his presence, despite not seeing the familiar child for nearly seven years. Seven years of tyranny. Seven years of being king. He was probably hiding in his home like everyone else, or perhaps he had been drained of life by the re-deads. Something about this thought made me pause. No, he wasn't dead, my sixth sense attested to that at least. I could not imagine such an untainted being, thrumming with sacred power, dead. Trying to do so brought a distressed air to my thoughts, and that alone disturbed me, never mind the near obsessive thoughts that surrounded the child. I felt... fated to meet him again in other circumstances. My eyes lifted to the sky as a large raven-thing swooped to the balcony's railing like a harbinger of great, terrible things to come. I felt excitement gnaw at my thoughts and my energies and interest piqued. The black beast had a message, and by the sinister lilt to its vile crooning, it had to be good.


	2. Chapter 1

I found myself awakened at night by a blaze of blue light that seared the inside of my eyelids and caused my skin to tingle unpleasantly. It has been the fifth time this month. I know this light, this tingling sensation. I try to tell myself that it means nothing, just a remnant of those memories of _him._ But in the end I can't fool myself, he grows nearer and his strength has increased since our last encounter at the drawbridge. Seven years... He would be a young man now and perhaps a threat, though minor, for what can one man do when faced an army of darkness? The rebels show to be strangely optimistic despite the darkling sky; they have intercepted a supplies caravan, and the castle servants suffer for it. I had had spies locate an outpost, and would teach them of their insignificance that day.

I sat up in my bed, the sheets felt too small and constricting that morning and I rose quicker than I may have any other day. The morning was bleak, and I found myself growing tired and moody from the stale atmosphere that hung over Hyrule since my usurp of the throne, as if the land herself mourned the king. But no, I would not allow myself such liberal thoughts. I was the king now, and the land would accept me in time, as would her people. That morning I wore my blackened armour, the young Gerudo who I had charged with tending the metal plates placed them over my shoulders, shins and chest with a certain reverence, and it was as if she were afraid to touch me. I could not blame her. Many had long called me the King of Evil. This name disturbed me only in my deepest hours of reflection and I felt that it should worry me. Those were more thoughts I did not allow myself. However, at this time I was not aware of how critical my people's view of me truly was.

I rode out with my army, no Hylians, nor Zoras, nor Gorons present. They would not fight for me, and I did not trust their wills, in any case. My army was lead by Moblins holding Wolfos on thick chains. The beasts were snapping and pulling on their leads in a frenzied rage. Wolfos were not meant to be chained. A dark bloom of glee flared to life in my chest at the thought of what those hungry beasts would do to the rebels. Tear them to bloody pieces, sparing none, and eating some. A chuckle threatened to spill from my lips at the surge of power that was like a drug to me. Behind the Wolfos were three Stalfos and behind those skeletal warriors, more Moblins. I adored the brutish creatures. Their wills so weak and mouldable, they bred like rabbits and they fought like trapped animals. They held no grudges and would work until exhaustion killed them. They were truly the perfect minion, the perfect pawn. Finally, flanking my out riding were two Moblin riders on those boars I had created especially for this purpose, partly bull and partly pig. They were the perfect mount for the perfect minion. Their tusks would cripple any who got in their path with a savage force. Those pigs would feed on human flesh if allowed, I was sure.

It was not after half a day's ride toward the Kokiri Forest before signs of the rebels were found. They had obviously chosen a place so close to the Forest knowing I didn't have it under my rule... yet. The weakness bothered me, and a dark anger filled my mouth with a foul taste. We followed the evidence of a hurried escape; the rebels had obviously had a camp here and had heard wind of my approaching forces. They wouldn't run far. I could tell the Wolfos had a scent. I signalled their release and I drove my army after them with an unrelenting force. The chase brought me sick pleasure, and I very nearly purred, I allowed my fingers to stroke my black steed's mane twice.

It was not long before we spotted a small force holding off two of the five Wolfos, the other two were dead, we had passed their corpses in our pursuit. Arrows stuck out from their white forms and they lay in a poetic half-leap, collapsed on their sides. Death was poetic... I frowned, this was not enough, I guessed that these young and strapping men were here to delay my forces to protect the core of the outpost. No matter, it was a futile attempt to salvage an already dead people. There were maybe fifteen young men; at least five were already wounded. My cold, calculating eyes took tally of their forces and my own. For the most part, their men seemed trained well enough in the sword or mace. Only a few seemed fresh and ignorant. I was not surprised, with such small numbers they would need all the strengths they could earn. My forces numbed nearly double theirs. But Moblins fought blindly, only the Stalfos could be accounted for having any true skill. I signalled an advance and cued to my riders to flank the rebels. I could feel victory like a warm flush across my cheeks, pleasure settled warmly in my stomach.

I was nearing my forecasted victory in short time, and it was only at this time that it occurred to me to take a couple hostages, the best of their fighters, the ones who were still left alive. I could use them for information, milk them for all they knew, and then kill them and place their treacherous heads on the battlements of Castletown. Now I did allow a dark chuckle to bubble from my blackened core. I ordered for the capture of two rebels, though I did not mention for my men to be gentle or kind and I knew they would not be. For what can Moblins understand of honour and dignity?


	3. Chapter 2

I sat in the king's ancient throne room, heavy drapes closed up towering windows that once let in a cheery sunlight. This room had once been alive, full of light and spirit. Now it was like a tomb bathed in blood-like crimson. The curtains, like dark waterfalls, and the long, plush carpet that spilled from beneath my feet, down the low stairs, down the long hall and to the heavy mahogany doors, half ajar, was like an incarnadine river. Shadows swallowed up corners and wrapped around the tall pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling, also lost in darkness. The room had an atmosphere of mourning, it missed the golden king and his shining crowd, and it missed the late afternoon public hearings, the gathering of nobles and the general traffic of castle life that was now so lacking. The only living things this room saw were the servants who dusted the forgotten busts, or those passing to other rooms to attend to their duties. I remembered the time I had kneeled before his majesty, swearing fealty, a forked tongue between my venomous teeth. Even with my tainted presence in the room, it had been golden and pure and held a light, optimistic air.

I pressed my palms into the ancient wood of the throne, and imagined myself a loved king. And then I stood, disbanding those treacherous thoughts. A heavy cape fell from my shoulders to the floor, tattered and bloody still from battle. Victory's heady winds had brought me here, to this empty room. I knew I would have to calm my blood lust to question the hostages effectively. I could not lose my temper and loose my blade on their necks before I learned something of their forces. I could not allow my mood to be another weakness. To my subjects and my enemies I had to seem like an impenetrable fortress. With purposeful steps I followed the flowing river to its mouth and through the open doors; the only sound in the room was the swish of my cape against the back of my legs. Even the sound of my booted steps was swallowed by the plush carpet. I left the room to its brooding solitude once more.

I passed only a single servant on my way to the dungeon; she ducked her head and skittered around my looming form. I took both pleasure and pain in the action. I was aware of my dark, tainted aura, I knew of the fear which surrounded the name: Ganondorf. No, I was the King of Evil, and would never be the loved king. Anger burned in my stomach like fire flaring to life. I could not allow myself to entertain such thoughts of loved kings. I had to be impenetrable, maybe even to myself. I savoured the warmth of the anger, and turned it to shutting away the part of my mind that had betrayed my will.

The long winding stairs down to the dungeon held a flickering darkness that I could appreciate. Sporadic torches sputtered in the increasing chill, and I was thankful for what warmth my battle regalia allowed me. I was soon in the upper dungeon, lit by ancient braziers whose coals provided little warmth and enough light. I stepped into the long, narrow hall and paused to appreciate and allow the resonance of my entrance to echo satisfyingly. Where the abandoned throne room was silent as a morgue, the dungeon took each sound, the dripping of moisture, the scratch and nibble of rats, the heavy fall of my boots, and spat it back twofold. The sheer magnitude of my presence bolstered my ego and my vile act of cruelty. I had always carried myself with dignity, but here I squared my shoulders with a shrug for good measure. I turned towards the warden, a hunched figure, a Lizalfos. A humanoid lizard with spiked armour and an inkling more intelligence and wit than a Moblin. It flicked its tongue at me, and recognized my scent as the king. The lizard showed fealty in its own manner and lead me to the prisoner's holding cell. I paused just outside the firelight's reach, just inside the shadow's embrace. I let what I imagined to be fear and dread settle around the hostage's necks, let it fall like lead into their bellies.

I watched the Lizalfos hiss at the two young men. And I looked at each with a disappointment I had not expected, and for what I could not know. One was tall and youthful, perhaps still an adolescent. A dark red line ran from his cheekbone to just below his ear, a wound received and now clotted. He had brown eyes, brown hair and a pout to his reddened lips. His cheeks were flushed, and I was sure he was scared. The other rebel had darker skin with an olive hue, this and his well developed muscles told of his hard work in the sun. His hair was also brown, but lighter than the other's, likely to also be from sunlight. In his gray eyes, a steely glint of defiance. He would be fun to break. Like ivy, a dark coiling mass grew up and tightened around my heart and a sick glee at the thought of breaking the man's will soon followed.


End file.
